


blank as a new canvas

by YuzuGimlet



Series: soulmates wrist au [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuzuGimlet/pseuds/YuzuGimlet
Summary: Everyone had it on their wrist when they were born. The first words that their soulmate would say to them upon meeting. Except for Iwaizumi Hajime.





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone had it on their wrist when they were born. The first words that their soulmate would say to them upon meeting.

“So why doesn’t _he_ have them?” the nurse softly asked the doctor as they walked through the rows of cribs, trying to find the one this newborn belonged to.

The doctor's poker face didn't break. “I don’t know. It's an unnatural phenomenon. The parents wouldn’t even let us perform a small incision to check if it was under a second layer of skin.”

The nurse hummed sadly. “Poor child… so deformed.”

She lay him in the crib labeled IWAIZUMI HAJIME.

The baby wailed as it waved its fists in the air. Two fists—

at the end of two blank wrists.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gradeschool.

Iwaizumi held up a soccer ball. “C’mon, guys, let’s go play.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “We’re talking about our words, Iwaizumi. No one wants to play soccer today, get over it.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach clenched, and he immediately felt nauseous. He was about to turn and walk to the field to kick the ball around on his own when Daichi raised a hand. 

“Come sit with us, Iwaizumi,” he said kindly, gesturing to the half circle of boys sitting on the carpet of their elementary class.

Iwaizumi hesitated, but inched forward and took a timid seat. 

“Kuroo! What were yours, again?” Bokuto asked, practically bouncing. He reached for Kuroo’s hand without asking and pushed up his sleeve.

Scrawled across Kuroo’s wrist in small, fleeting handwriting were the words, “ _Thank you for the apple pie._ ”

“Isn’t it sweet?” Kuroo gushed with a smug look on his face. “It’s good that my soulmate loves apple pie.”

“You probably got some cute dainty girl!” Bokuto said, genuinely excited. “You totally have to invite me to your wedding! I’m gonna be your best man!”

“Definitely, Bo!”

Daichi shook his head. “You’re just thinking it’s a girl. It doesn’t have to be. It could be a guy who just really likes apple pie.”

Kuroo ignored this logic. “Let me see yours again, Bokuto.”

Bokuto proudly displayed his own words. The handwriting was dark, and in immaculate cursive. “ _I love owls. Don’t you?_ ”

Kuroo gave him a hand-reddening high five. “Owls! Bro, no wonder they’re your soulmate! You freaking love owls! That’s so amazing!”

If Bokuto had been happy before, he was absolutely glowing now. “I know, right?! And her handwriting is so neat and stuff.”

Iwaizumi fidgeted. If he wasn’t careful, then—

Terushima looked at him, sleazy smile across his lips. “Iwaizumi! What about your words? I don’t think you ever showed them to us!”

His blood turned to ice. “I… I want to keep them secret.”

“What? No fair! We showed you ours, didn’t we?” Bokuto whined. “Show us! Come on!”

“No. I don’t want to.” It felt like the walls in the room were beginning to close on him.

Kuroo snorted into his hands. “I bet it’s something stupid, like ‘ _you look like a crumpled piece of paper_ ’ or something. That’s why he’s not showing us.”

The blood pounded in Iwaizumi’s ears. “No, it’s not! There’s nothing stupid on my wrist!”

“Then show us!” Terushima leaned forward and grabbed his arm.

Everything happened so fast. One second, his sleeve was in the danger of being yanked up, and the next, Terushima was on the ground with a hand pressed to his cheek. Iwaizumi’s knuckles were hurting. All the boys were silent.

“What the HELL!” Terushima bellowed, as loudly as a third grader could.

“Ooh… Terushima said a bad word,” Bokuto said softly.

Iwaizumi’s knuckles _ached_. He slapped a hand over his wrist to make sure no one saw it and glared at Terushima. The fear, the nerves melted into anger.

“Don’t do shit like that, dumbass!” he yelled.

Bokuto’s eyes widened. “Ooh… Iwaizumi just said two REALLY bad words.”

Daichi massaged his brow like he was seventy, not an grade schooler. “Shut _up_ , Bokuto.”

Iwaizumi gathered himself, and cast his glare on the other boys. “I’m saving my words for my soulmate only. That’s how my parents raised me. Now, are you going to _leave me alone_ or do I have to clobber you all, too?”

Kuroo cracked his knuckles. “What, you really want to fight me?”

Daichi grabbed Kuroo by the back of his shirt and pulled him back.

“Stop it,” he said firmly. Kuroo made a face, but looked away grudgingly. “We did wrong by trying to force Iwaizumi to show us his words. Some people want them to be private. Let’s just go and play soccer.”

The boys were silent before Bokuto laughed.

“Yeah! Soccer!”

Iwaizumi shuddered as Terushima threw him the ugliest glare he could manage

* * *

 

High school was even _worse_. Soulmates were beginning to get found.

“Iwaizumi, this is my soulmate Kenma,” Kuroo said, almost glowing as he said the words

Snow dusted their shoulders. The street lamps flickered above them. Iwaizumi exhaled softly, breath puffing. The cold didn’t bother him. He was too numb to feel it.

He shook hands with a short pudding-head, grinning. “Hey. I'm really happy for you, Kuroo. Nice to meet you, Kenma.”

Kenma nodded once, hesitantly, before whispering, “Likewise.”

Kuroo sighed at the noise. Like every word Kenma spoke was a rush of air, and he was a drowning man. Something dark in him growled bitterly. Something in him _hated_ that happiness. Kuroo rubbed Kenma’s shoulder, and then lowered his voice as he turned back to Iwaizumi. 

“Look, dude, I know you’re really traditional about keeping your words to yourself and all, but seriously. I can help you find your soulmate.” He grinned like he was a fucking saint. Iwaizumi clenched his fist, resisting the urge to punch the other in the face.

He forced himself to shake his head slowly, keeping the smile on. “Look, Kuroo. Thanks for the offer, but I really don’t need help. I’m not looking for a soulmate.”

“Why not?” Kuroo asked, sounding annoyed. “Meeting your soulmate is the best thing in the entire world. It makes the world brighter, it makes food taste better—I’m serious!”

Iwaizumi sealed his lips and turned, walking away. He waved over his shoulder. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Kuroo turned to Kenma, pressing a kiss on the other’s pudding head. “Well, whatever. At least I’ve got you.”

“Sap,” Kenma muttered, blushing.

Iwaizumi wanted to vomit. He wanted to throw up a lot nowadays. He walked through the cold night listlessly until he was alone. With nothing but streetlights and snow.

“Fuck,” he said out loud, and kicked a tree. He kicked it again. He breathed in, and yelled, “FUCK!”

* * *

 

Iwaizumi was in college when he got the tattoo.

There had been a massive party. Iwaizumi remembered drinking enough alcohol to give a whale a hangover and little else. All he knew was that now he was here. In a tattoo parlor.

The tattoo artist cracked the joints in his neck. “Are you of age?”

Iwaizumi gave a garbled reply and tugged his wallet out of his pocket. The tattoo artist checked his ID to make sure. He nodded, with a sigh. “Alright, choose what you want.”

Iwaizumi was too drunk to care. No, not drunk. Depressed. There’s the right word. He couldn’t bring himself to care at _all_ nowadays. He pointed to a random design. “Give… Give me that one. On my… wrist.”

The tattoo artist stared down at the pale wrist for a second in barely contained surprise, but didn’t comment. “I’ll make it small so the regrets in the morning aren’t too bad.”

The needle began to whir. Everything faded out to a warm darkness.

Iwaizumi came to in his apartment the next day. The clock read 1:22 PM. His first thought was, “holy fucking shit, my head.” His next thought was, “oh fuck, THE TATTOO.”

Horror bubbled in his stomach at the sight of the bandage on his wrist. Iwaizumi grit his teeth before slowly peeling it back. His jaw dropped. Calloused fingers touched the tender dyed skin. There, in the middle of the blank wrist he hated so much, was a single music note.

Simple. Beautiful.

Iwaizumi pursed his lips, unsure how to feel. He ignored the throb in his chest and walked slowly to the bathroom.

Whatever.

* * *

 

Hanamaki looked at the music note on Iwaizumi’s wrist.

“Did you cover up a word?” he asked, confused.

Iwaizumi’s hands were shaking as they gripped the mug. “No.”

“Oh… I don’t get it.” Hanamaki played with his pink hair. He’d been doing that a lot since he’d lost a bet with Daishou and gotten it dyed. “Why do you have a tattoo on your wrist instead of soulmate words?”

His eye twitched. He croaked, “I wasn’t born with any.”

Hanamaki leaned back. He paused. “Cool. Alright. Can you pick up the milk today from the supermarket?”

Iwaizumi broke down, burying his face in his arms. His curled in on himself, pressing his face against the table’s surface as he cried.

Hanamaki winced, leaning forward to pat him on his shoulder. “Hey… hey, it’ll be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Iwaizumi bawled. “It’s not okay. I _need_ someone but I don’t have anyone.”

Hanamaki let him cry the entire night and Iwaizumi could not have been more grateful.

* * *

 

“What are you doing?” Hanamaki asked.

Iwaizumi looked at him, smiling loopily from the floor. Everything was spinning, but it felt _fantastic._ He looked at the empty syringe in his arm. Was this why? Damn, he should have bought more from Terushima.

Hanamaki seized Iwaizumi by his collar and heaved him to a chair. “Iwaizumi, what the _fuck_ did you do?”

Iwaizumi mumbled incoherently.

“ _What_?”

He looked at Hanamaki with tears in his eyes, giggling. “It’s the only way that makes me feel warm.”

Hanamaki looked upset. He hugged Iwaizumi, rubbing his back. “Dude. _Dude_. Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I want to die, Takahiro,” Iwaizumi mumbled. “I want to kill myself.”

The music note couldn’t be seen under all the scars.


	2. Not a Trafic Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I edited the format of this story a little lol

Iwaizumi Hajime was thirty when he made the trip to the mall. The pair of shoes he’d just bought clattered to the floor as a high, trembling note shattered through the gray haze that’d been shrouding him every day for the last decade of his life.

A violin.

The music sped up into something marvelous and echo-y that Iwaizumi’s knees almost buckled just _listening_. His chest ached.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, making his way through the mall to the source of that glorious music like he was sleepwalking.

In the center of the mall, right next to the fountain that hadn’t spit water in years, was the most beautiful man Iwaizumi had ever seen. He had shining brown hair that fell into his eyes and long pale arms that lean muscles rippled under. He wasn’t just attractive—he was the very definition of gorgeous.

_God. As if I need more reason to regret not having a soulmate_ , Iwaizumi thought to himself.

Pale fingers were a blur on the fingerboard. The bow ran across the strings like oil over water. The song ended too quickly. There were a few claps here and there, but this man should have been surrounded by an entire auditorium of roaring applause.

Iwaizumi told himself to walk away.

And then he and the violinist made eye contact. The violinist gave him a soft smile. And Iwaizumi was so, _so_ lost.

He approached the musician shyly. “Your performance was better than sliced tofu.” He paused, before flushing red. “Bread! Bread, I meant bread! I don’t know why I said tofu, fuck, I didn’t—”

But something strange happened. The violinist’s eyes widened and the smile fell from his face. He seized Iwaizumi’s hand from across the table full of CDs.

“What? Is everything alright?” Iwaizumi asked, confused.

The musician pulled down his sleeve almost frantically before shoving his arm into Iwaizumi’s face.

And there, written on this stranger’s wrist in Iwaizumi’s own handwriting, was one sentence.

_“Your performance was better than sliced tofu.”_

Something in him clicked, like an engine coming back to life after too long. The cage around him shattered, opening a path to the world he'd only been able to look at for his entire life. He could hardly believe it.

Iwaizumi whispered softly, “B-But I don’t have a word!”

Iwaizumi showed the violinist his wrist, the music note standing out clearly, along with years of bitter regret. Tears were streaming down the musician’s face. He softly took Iwaizumi’s hand and pressed a kiss against the battered wrist.

Iwaizumi’s chest felt like someone had rammed a spear through it. The musician grabbed the sharpie he’d been signing CDs with and wrote on the table:

_My name is Oikawa Tooru. I’ve been mute since the day I was born. I’m your soulmate._

Iwaizumi’s heart sputtered, before beating quietly for the first time in years. He took in a shuddering breath, and began crying quietly.

“Oh,” he whispered.

The musician took Iwaizumi’s hand in his. The other was shaking. He pressed a kiss to the music note and the scars, pressed kiss upon kiss on every slash that Iwaizumi had cut into himself.

And then, softly, taking Iwaizumi’s face in his hands, he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Iwaizumi’s arms moved of their own accord, wrapping themselves around Oikawa Tooru and squeezing, like he would disappear if he let go for even a second. Tears streamed freely now, and he was making embarrassing hiccuping noises.

His heart thudded and the world blossomed to color.


End file.
